


Hello, Beautiful

by MenthaLightfoot



Category: Latin Hetalia - Fandom
Genre: F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-29
Updated: 2015-12-29
Packaged: 2018-05-10 05:32:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,784
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5572762
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MenthaLightfoot/pseuds/MenthaLightfoot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Martín needs to find an outfit to impress the boss. Manuela hates shopping, but of course he makes her come anyway. (Fem!Chile/Fem!Peru)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hello, Beautiful

**Author's Note:**

> Written for my Latin Hetalia OTP Challenge last year. Rated Mature for implications of sex, but nothing graphic. 
> 
> Also available on Tumblr: menthalightfoot.tumblr.com/post/106022096855/otp-challenge-day-7-shopping

“What do you think of this one?”

Martín held up a pale blue shirt. Manuela buried her head in her arms, leaning against the rack of shirts. “It looks exactly like the last one, but in blue. They _all look the same_ , Martín.”

He rolled his eyes. “ _No_ , it does _not._ It has a slimmer silhouette, and it brings out my eyes.”

She scrunched her nose. “What? Do you make this stuff up as you go along, or do you pre-prepare bullshit?”

 He sighed and clinked the shirt back on the rack. “You’re impossible.”  

“I’m sorry, Martín, but what do you want from me? What about _this_ ,” she gestured wildly across her body, “makes you think that I know anything about clothes?” She was wearing her usual button-up and sweatshirt, with black slacks and plain shoes. Manuela always wore whatever she wanted, to work and everywhere else. It was enough to give Martín an aneurysm, because she was a beautiful woman, and if she would _try_ she could look ten times as amazing as she already did.

She squinted at the price tag of one of the shirts and grimaced. “Why didn’t you ask Sebas for help with this? Don’t you and he usually get off on shopping together?”

Martín snorted. “He didn’t want to take the ferry from Montevideo. And you know what Prado likes better than I do.”

Their editor, Micaela Prado, was taking Martín with her on an important interview tomorrow. _“Dress nice,”_ she’d said, _“and don’t say anything dumb.”_ Which Martín had interpreted as a chance to buy himself a whole new outfit.

Manuela glared. “Will you quit it with that? She doesn’t like me any more than anyone else.”

“That definitely explains why she’s always asking you for advice, and giving you extra projects—” _And staring at your ass when you pass by…_

“Maybe it’s because I’m actually serious about my job. And I get my articles in without making it into a stage production.”

Martín glared at her. “I wouldn’t even be going if you hadn’t refused to do it.”

She glared back. “You’re welcome, jackass. You are so lucky to have such a caring and self-sacrificing friend.”

Martín rolled his shoulders and collected himself. “Okay, okay. Just take this seriously for _one moment_.” He held up two shirts, the pale blue one and a dark blue one. “Which color do you like better?”

“They’re both blue.”

_Oh my god._ “ _Yes_ ,” he said, gritting his teeth, “but which shade?”

She shrugged. “The darker one, I guess.”

“ _Thank you_.” He hung the hanger over his fingers and grabbed the pair of slacks he had already picked out. “I’m going to try these on. I’ll call you back when I need you.”

“Have fun with that.”

She watched Martín go back into the changing room. Once he was gone, she sighed and leaned against the rack. She hated that he was forcing her to go through this. She never went shopping unless she had to, and putting up with Martín’s weird ideas about clothing was like pulling teeth. What was the difference between two nearly identical blue shirts, and more importantly, who cared?

She pulled her sweatshirt tighter around her. It was perfectly soft and familiar, and maybe it wasn’t fashionable, but she loved it. It was simple, fuss-free, and comfortable.

“Manuela?”

She walked to the changing room. “Yeah, I’m here.”

Martín pulled the curtain open. He had a black jacket over the dark blue shirt, and matching black trousers. He hadn’t picked a tie yet, so the shirt was open at his throat and the top two buttons were left open. He straightened his hair in the mirror. “What do you think?”

“You look nice. But you might want to button your shirt. You might blind someone.” 

He blushed and gripped the shirt closed. “Don’t look there!”

She cackled.

After looking at himself in the mirror for a few more minutes, turning about and fixing his hair in different ways, he decided to get the clothes. Manuela gave him a resounding round of applause, which made him huffy, and he pulled the curtain closed so he could change again.

She sat down in the empty dressing room while he looked for a tie. Shirts and pants were scattered all over the floor, and the empty hangers were bunched up together on a hook. _Of course he didn’t pick up after himself. Diva._

On top of the pile was a simple shirt in a light purple color. She stared at it for a long time, before picking it up and brushing away some of the wrinkles. It was a nice color. She didn’t usually like colors, because the colors they used in women’s clothing were always too bright and the prints too big. They weren’t necessarily awful all the time—Prado wore some of the brightest clothes she’d ever seen, and looked classy to boot—but Manuela was not the kind of person who looked good in that.

But this would be okay, maybe.

“Ready?”

She dropped the shirt back on the ground as Martín popped his head back in, a brown paper shopping bag in one hand. She stuffed her hands in her sweatshirt pockets. “I’m going to head home after this. I’ll see you at work.”

“Come on, we’ll go out to dinner. I’ll even let _you_ pick the wine. And I want to get one more thing.”

“Well, the only thing I can think of that you might still need is underwear, and I’m sorry, but if you’re going to do _that_ with Prado I don’t want to know anything about it. Especially not what you’re wearing _down there_.”

He sputtered. “I—I would never—”

She waved him away. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. Go home and practice your smile in the mirror, or whatever it is you do when you’re alone.”

Martín stared at her for a minute, with this _look_ in his eye. A sad, plaintive look. “What?” she asked.

He sighed. “Nothing, Manu. See you tomorrow.” He kissed her cheek goodbye, and gave her a soft smile and a wave as he left the store.  

_Whatever, jackass. Be fucking cryptic, see if I care._ She waited until he was out of the store to pick up the shirt again.

She tried to look indifferent while she looked through the racks. The shopwoman was watching her as she straightened cufflinks in a glass case. It probably looked weird, her shopping here without Martín. She found the purple shirt in a smaller size, and it had a gray vest over top of it on the hanger, so she brought that too.

She tried not to look at herself in the mirror as she changed. The shirt and vest fit fine—one of the few perks of being small-chested. She liked them. And they looked good. They did. Probably. _Don’t they?_

She changed back into her clothes, bunched up the new ones in her arms, and brought them to the counter before she could question it too much. The shopwoman started ringing them up.  “For your…boyfriend?” she asked.

Manuela’s lips tightened. Whenever she and Martín went anywhere together, everyone immediately assumed that they were dating or married. The truth was, Martín was gay as a pineapple and in love with his friend Luciano, if he would finally grow some balls and admit it to himself. But that didn’t stop everyone she met from congratulating her on her good fortune, _he’s such a great catch_. It made her want to scream and rip people’s heads off.

Instead she just smiled, as sweetly as she could manage. “Yes.”

The woman nodded. She looked at the tag on the vest. “Would you like the matching pants to go with this?”

“Uh…yeah, sure. Medium, please.” 

The woman looked at her a little strangely, because Martín was not a small man, and it was obvious that a medium would never fit him. But she didn’t say anything, and went around the counter to get the pants. Manuela stared at her fingernails and tried not to feel too sick to her stomach. Why did it have to be such a big deal, what she wore? They were _clothes_ , and she had the right to wear them. So what if they were supposed to be for men?

The feeling simmered in the bottom of her stomach all the way home. She poured herself a glass of wine, and sat on her bed in her underwear, staring at the outfit as it hung on the closet door. It felt like it was staring back at her, challenging her.

This was why she didn’t go shopping. 

She didn’t wear it for a few weeks, letting the clothes just sit in her closet. The longer they were there, the worse she felt about them, because she’d paid good money for them (too much money, Martín was a vain bastard and she would never shop in the stores he went to again) and they should either be worn or returned.  

The next morning, she put them on, and spent too long looking in the mirror, trying to figure out if they looked okay or not. When she glanced back at her alarm clock, she was already late. She rushed out the apartment; she would have to wear the clothes, and accept the consequences.

The consequences came quickly. Martín’s jaw dropped when he saw her.

“ _Whoa_.”

She huffed, and threw her bag under her desk. “I don’t have time for this, save your comments for later.”

“But Manu—”

“ _I said shut up!_ ”

Half the office turned to look at her. She growled, and flopped down in her chair. _Fuck fuck fuck. Why did I think this was a good idea?_

A note was sitting on her desk, on Prado’s pink memo paper. _Need a hand when you get in. Come by my office ASAP._ _;)_

_Great. She knows I’m late._ Manuela grabbed the memo and pushed herself up. “Did Prado say what she wanted?”

Martín scanned her up and down before answering, and Manuela had to seriously restrain herself from kicking him in the head. “Something about the article you wrote on the student protests. She didn’t say what.”

“Oh, great.” She and Prado had fought over that article, because Manuela’s wording had apparently been “too strong”. _It’s an article on student protests, what does she want?_  

Micaela Prado was the most feminine, and the most formidable, woman Manuela had ever seen. She wore dresses in every color of the rainbow, always with matching high heels, and long, glossy hair that she wore loose down her back. She put fear into the hearts of everyone on the paper. Scrupulous about what was put into print under her watch, she returned article drafts covered in slashes and comments, and would physically go after those who didn’t meet their deadlines. Martín had said to Manuela once, over the second bottle of wine, “Someday she’s going to crush my balls with those pumps. And smile while doing it.”

Manuela was the only one who wasn’t afraid of her. It was pointless to be afraid of somebody, just because they were trying to get things done, and get them done _right_. If she made a mistake, she would own up and fix it. Anyway, Manuela’s mother was a lot scarier than Prado, and she’d been actively coping with that for twenty-six years.

She decided to bite the bullet before it could strike her dead. As soon as she was in the door of Prado’s office, she said, “I’m not changing that article again, so either run it or don’t. At this point, I don’t care, but I am _not_ going through another draft. Fuck the readers if they can’t handle it, and fuck the university and the government, because those students are _right_.”

Prado stared at her from behind her desk, her eyes wide. Manuela was a little shocked, that she didn’t immediately have a retort ready. Usually Prado went at her like no other. “Prado?”

Her eyes snapped back to their usual selves. “I’m sorry, what did you say?”

“You…Martín said you wanted to talk to me about the student protest article. Again.”

“Right. Right. I just wanted your opinion on what photo should go next to it.”

Manuela was taken aback. “That’s it?”

Prado smiled, leaning her cheek on one hand, her red fingernails tapping her desk. “Yes. What did you think I was going to say?”

“I just…” _Don’t start something_. “Nothing. Sorry. What pictures were you thinking of?”

Prado gestured to the spot next to her chair, and Manuela came around the desk. She flipped through both choices, and Manuela pointed to one. “That one’s better. It shows what happened, the brutality of the response.” She shook her head. _Those poor people._

Prado nodded. “I thought that was the better one too. All right, that’s that. You’re done with all your drafts, right? I want someone to help me check over the layouts.”

“Sure.”

She spent the day working with Prado. Martín came looking for her at lunch, but she shook her head and stuck her tongue out at him while Prado’s head was down. He mouthed something, but she shooed him. Prado looked up a second later, and he bolted so she wouldn’t see him. _Maybe I can get through the day without talking to him. Then I can go home and throw these clothes away, and everything can go back to normal._

Everyone else had left the office when they finally finished. Manuela rolled up the sleeves of the shirt to her elbows. Her back hurt a little from leaning over the desk so much, but it was a good kind of exhaustion—that of a job well done. 

“Gracious, that took too long.” Prado stretched her arms up above her head, and ruffled her hair with her fingers. “We need to get out of this place. Come on, I owe you a meal.”

“What? No. I’m just doing my job.”

“No, this is my job. You’re just incredibly helpful. And just about the only one I trust to do things right.”

Manuela shrugged. “It’s not a big deal.” 

“Well, you’re the best I have. Hard work deserves reward. Besides, an outfit that hot shouldn’t go to waste.”  

Manuela’s head jerked up. She stared at Prado in disbelief, and snorted. It came out before she could stop herself.

Prado leaned one hip against her desk. “You don’t agree?”

“I…” She ran a hand through her short hair. “I was running late. I didn’t mean to wear this today.”

“Well, I’m glad you did.” She grinned, and crossed her arms over her chest. “Working with you has always been such a _pleasure_ , but it’s that much better when you look so sexy.“

_Wait. Wait. What the hell?_ Manuela grappled around, trying to find the right thoughts. _What? Is she…does she…_

Prado laughed. “Finally starting to get the picture?” She laid one hand on top of Manuela’s.

Manuela’s brain short-circuited when Prado kissed her. 

***

Her cell phone went off way too early the next day. Manuela grappled for it on the nightstand, not wanting to move too much when the bed was so warm and she was so comfortable.

“Hello?”

“Manu?” It was Martín.

“Ugh.”

“Nice to hear from you too. What happened to you last night? I called and called and you never picked up. Your apartment was dark when I went over.”

“Martín.” She licked her lips. Her throat was dry, and a little sore. “No offense, but I need a cup of coffee before I can listen to your voice and not want to punch you.”

“Haha. You’re still in bed? It’s almost noon.”

_Fuck_. Manuela hated sleeping in. It meant that pretty much the entire day was lost, because she was a morning person, and if she didn’t get up her body would just stay asleep for the rest of the day. She turned to look at the nightstand. Her clock wasn’t there. And didn’t she have the nightstand on the other side of the bed?

Something shifted against her, and she nearly had a heart attack. Warm arms wrapped around her waist, and someone nuzzled into her back. She twisted to look over her shoulder.

Prado was lying next to her. Naked.

_Oh right. You slept with your boss._

“…I’m going to have to call you back.” She flipped the phone closed.

Micaela hummed, and opened her eyes. Her makeup was smudged thickly around her eyes; her lipstick had all been kissed off. She smiled, and Manuela’s heart fluttered a bit. “Good morning, beautiful.”

This was going to take some getting used to.


End file.
